


The Musketeers Drabbles

by splorchin



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (also maybe), (maybe), A dead fandom but im obsessed so shut up, Alexandre Dumas - Freeform, Angst, Aramis - Freeform, Aramis/Rene D'Herblay, Athos is brooding and dark, BBC The Musketeers - Freeform, Character Death, Constance D'Artagnan kicks ass, D'Artagnan is a whiny baby, Drabbles, Everyone Is Gay, Fluff, Multi, Other, PORTHOS - Freeform, Porthos Du Vallon - Freeform, Porthos deserves better, RIP Porthos, Senseless writing, Soldiering is dangerous kids, The Musketeers - Freeform, The Three Musketeers - Freeform, They all need some happiness (and wine), They're all in love bye, a worthy bromance, fluff?? sorta, idk when this is set but sh, non-canon death, non-canon drabble, one-word promt, some smut, they all do
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-07 14:26:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18236108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splorchin/pseuds/splorchin
Summary: A collection of works; one-word prompt mini-fics, reader inserts, and headcanons. Everything Musketeers you can find here.





	1. Purgatory

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I'm a little late to this fandom but I know there are a few OGs still out there in need of actual content, so I'm here to provide. I'll try my best to update twice a week.

“If I die, d’you think I’ll go to heaven?” Sputtering words that were feeble and hardly perceptible left the soldier’s lips. Crimson, crimson everywhere. Blood was no stranger to Aramis, but this was ungodly.   
“I believe if you repent, you shall.” His brother-in-arms lay at his feet gurgling in his own claret liquid that once ran through his veins.   
“Tell 'em m’sorry.” The man was not small, fragility had never been in his nature until this point. His usually ochre skin was just as pale as Aramis’, and the latter all but refused to let him pass, here and now.   
“This is not your time. You will tell them yourself, on God.” Choking, he was choking on his tears. He had to be strong. Not for himself, but for his comrade who lay sprawled in agony upon the dirt and rubble of the passing battle. He didn’t deserve to die like this. He was a good man. Everyone made terrible decisions, yet this particular soldier had made very few, and far between.   
“You are a saint, Porthos. God will forgive you.” Aramis’ hands grasped the front of his closest friend’s armour. Despite all that was happening, the wounded monsieur began to laugh. A hearty, but weak chuckle that made those dimples crease and those eyes twinkle.   
“I’ve killed men, Ar’mis. M’ hardly a decent man, much less a man of god.”   
“Please. Athos will arrive soon, you can hold out till then, yeah?” His sooty hands clutched that leather jacket’s collar, fingers becoming white, knuckles even whiter.   
“I’ve never been patient.” Porthos coughed. His body shook, similarly to how Aramis’ at this point. They lay in each others’ grasp, silently but for the rasping, ragged breathing that came from the marred man.  
“You’re too good a man to go to hell.”   
“Put in a good word with God for me, ‘Miz.”   
His eyes began to tear up. “I’ll get to see my mum soon.”   
“I reckon you will.” Aramis squeezed his eyes shut. Despite the darkened world that closed eyes brought him, the vision of Porthos’ pained face stuck in his mind. He couldnt let his friend die, but there was nothing left to do. “You’ll go to purgatory, at the very least.”   
“Miz’.”  
A strangled noise of inquiry left his lips.   
“Take care of yourself.”   
“I will.”   
And with that, the man drew his last breath.


	2. Captivating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan is a foolish little bastard, that's all I'm gonna say :)

From the moment he saw her, to the moment they gave themselves up in marriage, he had eyes just for her. The curve of her face, the porcelain skin free of blemish and imperfection, the waist he had an addiction to laying his hands upon- his adoration could never cease for her. Constance was the most captivating woman D’Artagnan had ever known.  
Those blue eyes bore into his suspiciously. Although he usually adored that beautiful face, right now, it was intimidating to all hell.  
“What’ve you done?” Lithe hands gracefully rested on her hips. “Don’t give me that look, monsieur. Athos told me everything.”  
“Then why must you ask?” Almost apologetically, (but not quite so) he meandered to where his wife stood. A dishtowel hung from her right hand, which she raised to swat him away.  
“I’d like to hear it from your mouth.”  
Faintly, he whined as though an infant.  
Constance’s features softened. For a moment, D’Artagnan almost had hope that he was not about to receive a quarter-hour long lecture on behaviour outside the Garrison. Those hopes crumbled into nothingness as she inhaled sharply.  
“What did we say about starting senseless fights with the Red Guard?”  
“Not to.”  
“Precisely.” Setting the dishtowel down and crossing her arms, the woman furrowed her brows. “Are you hurt?” She asked, quieter than the first bit of speaking she’d done at him.  
“I’m a Musketeer. It takes a lot to hurt me, mademoiselle.”  
“I’m a musketeer’s wife, I would know.” Despite her husband’s earlier foolishness and general idiosyncrasies, a sly grin crept to grace rosy lips. Those rosy lips that he longed to lay upon his own, at this very moment.  
“Must I beg for your forgiveness?” D’Artagnan laid his hat atop their dinner table.  
“I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I get that it's a seemingly rushed heterosexual ship, but ?? it's canon and I need some canon up in here so y'all will have to deal uwu


	3. Eavesdrop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set sort of right after the scene where Treville is stripped of his title, like a little interlude thing. Non-canon and totally just filler but here you go :)

Ears straining, neck craning, Constance leaned against the creaky doorframe of Treville’s office. Muffled speaking behind the old oak door made her perk her head up. 

“Who do you expect us to answer to now?” The voice of her lover.   
“Whoever is put in charge.” The voice of the ex-captain of the Musketeers. Not that she knew of him being stripped of his title yet. Her palm rested upon the dreary walls. They needed a new coat of paint. Perhaps in her spare time, she could come by and be on the task.   
Athos’ signature sigh resonated through the creases and cracks above and below the door. Constance could almost feel the exasperated eyes of the man glaring at Treville through the partition separating them.   
“You’ll always be our captain, title or not.”   
“Those are kind words indeed, Athos, but unnecessary all the less. I’m not your captain any longer. I cannot choose who you pledge loyalty to, but do be wise.” The woman’s face drained of it’s colour. He’d been demoted. Now she knew why the man moped and dragged himself around the Garrison in such a clouded manner. She did not, however, get the chance to drag herself out of the hallway where she lurked before the older man emerged from the room. He carried a small box filled with what she assumed were all his belongings and trinkets that once adorned his office. “Constance.” He muttered, almost ashamedly. “Monsieur.” She nodded her head graciously. Seconds before, she’d almost considered, reflexively, calling him captain, but she’d bit her tongue. That would be inconsiderate, as she decided.   
“You heard, then?” Face raising, as well as eyes, to meet hers, he held the box closer to his chest.   
“I’m sorry,” She started, laying a hand on his shoulder. Her cheeks flushed as she concluded; “and yes.” D’Artagnan, Aramis, Athos, and Porthos all followed their ex-captain’s suit, filing out the office one by one. The other two men, Porthos and Aramis, had been silent. So silent, that Constance could barely read what was upon their faces. She couldn’t tell if they were saddened by the loss of their superior, whom they looked up to as if he was a surrogate father to them. Although the lady assumed they would be.   
D’Artagnan’s cocky self leaned against the wall across the doorframe from where she stood.   
“Eavesdropping, m’lady?”   
“Shut up.” She huffed.


	4. Extravagant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pothos retells the tale of how he came to wear that scar upon his face.

It was a normal Thursday night. As normal and familiar as they usually were. The (some ex) musketeers were, as normal, seated within the walls of their usual tavern, joined by a few of the older cadets, and Constance. Brujon sat idly beside the man they referred to as Général Du Vallon, sipping a weak wine from a metal mug. 

The sound of hearty laughter filled the entirety of the room. Porthos set down his brandy and slapped a hand atop the table, forcing everyone into an anticipatory silence.  
“It was about a doz’n years ago, maybe less.” The cadets perked up. The men all had some barmy war stories and anecdotes concerning their earlier years as the famed Three Musketeers, and the young students were always eager to hear them. “Far behind enemy lines, we were. All’o us musketeers, soldiers an’ such.  
“So I’as runnin’ down the battlefield, yeah? N’there were men, some dead, th’others still breathin’- but barely.” Of course, he was telling another preposterous and extravagant version of the story of how he received the scar above his left eye. His face became grave and dark.  
“Su’nnly this hand, reaches out ’n’ grabs my ankle.” His own hand shot out and pretended to grasp the air in front of Brujon’s face. At this point, D’Artagnan was struggling to keep in a snort.  
“Stop laughin’, I’m serious.” Porthos gave a warning glance to the youngest of the original four, raising an eyebrow as the man continued to shake imperceptibly with contained amusement.  
“Fine, fine. If you insist, Général.”  
“Thank you. See, I thought it was but that one man, tryna kill me off an’ all, but BAM!” The darker-skinned man slammed his fist against his palm, making the budding recruits flinch at the abrupt shout.  
“Ab’t four of em’ fall from the sky, it seemed. E’rry one of em’ carried daggers longer than god’s beard. They’ll had me surrounded, n’ the one man still layin’ at my feet, hand still tryin’ to disrobe me from below, jumped up.” Aramis began to choke on his drink, spiralling into a coughing fit. Athos was compelled to clap him on the back to get him to be quiet. He was enjoying himself. Constance, intent on humouring the man, for the sakes of her own hilarity in the most likely case, nodded as she topped up glasses.  
“It’s true,” She said assertively, earning a complicit look from the soldier reciting the tall tale. D’Artagnan raised his hands in the air in mock exasperation, but received nothing but a pat on the head from his wife.  
“Brandishin’ a sword as if he’s the shit, he gave me th’stink eye an’ slashed at my face.” Content with how he’d fabricated it this time, Porthos sat back.  
“Thas’ how I got this,” he concluded quietly all while pointing towards that puckered scar that ran down his visage.  
That's when Aramis decided to get up, tipping his hat to the crew.  
“I’ll be off. Duty calls.” A sly grin adorned his face. Porthos gave an admonishing glance to his friend that said _don’t you even dare._ The minister grinned now, crossing his arms.  
“Since you’re all wondering-”  
“Mis’, I’ll kill you-”  
“It was a cat.”  
The cadets’ expressions faded from impressed to confused.  
“Porthos was fond of a little creature he’d named Stripey back when he was but a child. One day, however, Stripey wasn’t too fond of him.”  
The feet of the chair screeched as the taller man stumbled to a standing position.  
“Thas’ it. You’ve done lost your privilege to live.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is more of a lighthearted one, cause we all need some happy muskies up in this place. 10/10 Aramis is getting fuckign bEated later tonight lmao

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment if you have another one-word prompt, a reader insert request, or head canon requests. I'm open to all suggestions.


End file.
